


maybe in another lifetime

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Winterhawk Bingo Again [4]
Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Each Fic Under 1k, Ficlet Collection, M/M, Tags in Chapter Description, each chapter is a standalone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28849092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: A collection of winterhawk fics under 1k.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Winterhawk Bingo Again [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1963777
Comments: 42
Kudos: 89
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	1. Mohawk

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title corresponds to the Winterhawk Bingo square it fills. If there's any major trigger stuff I'll be sure to give a heads-up in the chapter description. Enjoy!
> 
> Chapter 1 Tags: very mildly referenced recreational drug use, Ronin Clint

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“Sure I’m sure,” Clint answers smoothly without opening his eyes, a faint smile on his lips. “’s why you’re here. I asked you to do it, right?”

Bucky refrains from sighing, instead pushing his fingers through Clint’s hair. It’s getting long, he notices. Not long in the way that his own hair is long - not the messy half-bun that Bucky’s currently sporting, haphazard knots over his shoulders and around his neck. Just long for Clint, which means it’s getting in his face.

There are curls now, loose corkscrews falling gently over Clint's forehead. (Bucky wishes they weren’t getting taken away, almost, because he likes how they soften up all these sharp edges that Clint keeps accumulating with that bloodstained katana sitting on the couch.) The strands are soft under his hand when Bucky strokes his fingers through them. It’s not stiff with hair gel like it normally is - Clint must’ve washed it recently, which is a surprise in of itself, and Clint tips his head back obligingly so Bucky will keep touching him.

“You’re getting spoiled,” Bucky says softly.

“Maybe,” Clint agrees.

Bucky releases an exhale that comes out as more of a sigh. “I’m supposed to be having a team meeting right now.”

“Then why are you here?”

“You asked me,” Bucky answers, like it wasn’t already obvious. He reaches for a comb and starts carefully parting the curls, trying to make a straight line so he doesn’t turn this into a complete mess. It’s not like he’s had a lot of experience with cutting hair - case in point, his own hair is terrible - but whatever Clint wants Clint gets, at least from Bucky.

Judging from the smug look on his face, Clint knows that already.

“I’m not a hairdresser,” Bucky says, finally picking up the clippers.

“It doesn’t have to be good,” Clint responds. “Just done. I trust you.”

God knows what the correct response to _that_ is but he sure doesn’t, so Bucky tries to focus on shearing off the curls in an even line. They’ve forgotten to put a towel down - luckily they’re in Clint’s tiny bathroom and the hair can be swept up from the tiles without too much fuss.

Clint’s still got his eyes closed and Bucky would think he’s asleep if not for the way he seems to instinctively know when Bucky needs him to shift his head to get a better angle. His head’s partially tipped back and Bucky can see every little freckle on his face, every tiny scar that he wouldn’t normally notice.

It’s an effort to drag his attention away from studying Clint’s face, but he manages.

There’s no talking from either of them as Bucky focuses on the task in front of him. It should make him uneasy to sit in dead silence - normally he _hates_ it - but he’s never once been uncomfortable with Clint and this is no different.

(Not even now that Bucky has to lie about where he’s been, pretend he hasn’t seen the gold and black suit thrown haphazardly over the couch and look Steve in the eye when he says he hasn’t seen Clint for the last eight months.)

Clint's warm under his hands. Relaxed. 

Nothing like Ronin's cold fury on the battlefield.

He's the only one that gets to see Clint Barton anymore, he realizes as he brushes the loose hair off of Clint's broad shoulders.

“Done,” Bucky says eventually.

“Cool,” Clint answers, sitting up to look in the mirror. “You’re not going to cut the bit on top?”

“Leave it,” Bucky says - he’s gotten rid of most of the curls and the sides of Clint’s hair are cropped close, but he couldn’t quite make himself get rid of the whole lot. “You look nice.”

“Complimenting me now? You _are_ getting soft,” Clint says. It’s not really a poke; the way he says it is too affectionate for the usual banter. “I can’t show my face out there anymore. You know no one’s going to see my hair besides you, right?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky says.

Clint’s smile gets wider at that. He reeks of weed and cheap beer, and there’s more holes than fabric in the sweatpants he’s wearing. The new mohawk feeds into this whole grungy aesthetic he’s been sporting since he finally reappeared in the city, and his apartment is more mess than anything else. It’s terrible - probably says a lot about Hawkeye’s recent fall from grace, and for Bucky’s own health he shouldn’t be touching it with a ten-foot pole.

Clint’s kind of disgusting, really, and Bucky still wants to kiss him so bad that it makes his head hurt.

“You could probably still make that meeting if you run,” Clint says, tipping his head back to look up at Bucky.

“Probably,” Bucky agrees quietly.

Doesn’t move.

“What’re you doing? Anyone’d think you actually like hanging out with me, Barnes,” Clint says.

He does, god help him. He really does.

“You’re a mess,” Bucky murmurs.

“Yeah? And what’s that make you?” Clint asks, quiet like it’s a secret.

“Worse,” Bucky answers. "I'm worse."

There's something to be said about the decisions Bucky's making currently - that they're terrible choices, mainly, and at one point he's going to have to choose between his life as it is and burning everything down to try and save a man who doesn't want to be saved. 

It doesn’t stop him from leaning down to kiss Clint as gentle as he can, awkward angle and bad decisions be damned.


	2. Bucky as Hawkeye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 Tags: Implied sexytimes?

“Well,” Clint says. “This kinda ruins my fun, honestly.”

“I didn’t do it on _purpose_ ,” Bucky answers, sounding disgusted.

Clint takes a step back so he can lean against the alcove table, careful not to knock over Tony’s expensive vase with the amount of tin foil on his arm. It’s surprisingly unwieldy; getting it on had been easy but getting it to _stay_ on is another beast entirely.

Bucky shuts the door to the room he’d been about to walk into before he’d spotted Clint sauntering down the corridor, abruptly muffling the many voices from inside. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I spent the last two weeks on a mission and forgot about Tony’s Halloween party until ten minutes ago, and all I had was some foil, a gun, and a bag full of Natasha’s spy wigs.”

Clint doesn’t know if it’s coincidence or a very unsubtle hint that she always makes him carry the wigs. It’s almost like she doesn’t _like_ the purple tips Kate had done for him one night when he’d fallen asleep on the couch. Probably the latter, knowing how Nat is.

Bucky’s still grumbling about their unfortunate costume choices. It’d be easy to tune him out and for a moment Clint seriously considers removing his aids, but that wouldn’t solve the unfortunate situation at hand.

“...I like the skirt?” Clint offers when Bucky just puts a hand to his forehead like this whole situation is giving him a headache. Makes sense he’d be put out by this - Clint finds it more amusing than anything, although he’s having trouble keeping his eyes on Bucky’s face.

Someone’s been in the storage boxes in his apartment block’s basement, looks like. That, or Bucky’s had a perfect replica of Clint’s old costume custom-made - it’s not the masked cowl-and-boots one, which Clint would’ve understood as a great practical joke.

Instead Bucky’s decided on the one Clint’s referred to in the past as his slutty phase; sleeveless tunic with a V that leaves nothing of Bucky’s gloriously perfect abs to the imagination - and man, Clint’s usually more of an ass guy but those are some nice tits - with a purple skirt barely covering certain important assets. He’s found a bow and quiver from somewhere but that part feels insignificant compared to the rest of the costume (or lack thereof.)

_Fuck_.

Clever, though. Making fun of one of Clint’s worse fashion choices over the years. It’d be a good joke, if Clint hadn’t had exactly the same idea. Great minds think alike, and all that.

”They’re gonna think we’re doing couple’s costumes,” Clint remarks, once he’s regained his footing.

“One of us should change,” Bucky says.

“I don’t want to go back to my room,” Clint says. Whines, more like, because as much as he likes being close to the roof he’s not a fan of elevators _or_ stairs.

“Fine. I’ll go.”

“No, don’t,” he says before he can stop himself.

Bucky pauses. Raises an eyebrow. “Why? You got a better plan?”

“We could just… roll with it,” Clint offers, his gaze drifting back down to Bucky’s bare legs. He’s shaved, and Clint can see delicate black ink curving just under the hem of his skirt. When did he have time to get a tattoo?

When he looks up it’s to see Bucky watching him back.

The intensity of his expression makes a shiver roll down Clint’s spine.

“Or we could ditch the party _and_ the costumes,” Bucky says.

Wait. “Really?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky answers, a faint smirk on his lips. “You gonna make me regret it?”

“I mean,” Clint starts, because everyone who’s ever slept with him has probably regretted it. Then he realizes what he’d be turning down, and his self-control isn’t great at the best of times but it’s turned to dust in the wake of Bucky’s thighs. _Fuck_ , he wants to lick them. “Hopefully not?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, hooks his fingers in the belt loop of Clint’s pants. “Could’ve lied to make me feel better about this, Barton.”

Clint lets himself be tugged in the direction of the door, feeling a grin tug at his mouth. “Where’s the fun in that?”


End file.
